


We Never Change, Do We?

by Daephraelle



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Arguing, M/M, Pre-Slash, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daephraelle/pseuds/Daephraelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Union Depository heist, things still need to be said between Trevor and Michael, but their id and ego keep getting in the way and Michael isn't sure if he can keep on seeing Trevor when all they do is fight.<br/>Perhaps if they could just sit down and finally, properly talk, they could remember why they became friends in the first place all those years ago...</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Never Change, Do We?

“Yeah, well then maybe you need a fucking therapist!”

Michael threw his hands up in the air and stalked away from Trevor who stood – teeth bared and muscles tensed for a fight, the glare of a midday sun haloed behind him.

“Oh yeahhh, Mikey,” Trevor replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “‘Cause that seems to have been working fucking _perfectly_ for you!”

Trevor cast his hands wide and pasted a mocking smile onto his face.

“Oh, I’m _Michael_ ,” he said sarcastically. “I sit on my ass all day doing nothing, while my wife fucks the pool boy and my shitty kids spend all my money – help me to feel less of a fucking _pussy_!”

Michael whirled around on the planks of the boardwalk, a look of murder in his eyes and snarled at Trevor.

“Well, _I’m_ Trevor – I fuck women old enough to be my _mother_ , eat people that don’t agree with me in ALL fucking senses of the word, and smoke so much glass that’s it’s a wonder I have any fuckin’ _teeth_ left!”

Trevor’s face flushed red and he staggered towards Michael, the knuckles on his hands white with strain.

“Don’t you mention my goddamn mother you fat son of a bitch! She is a precious, damaged flower and she is OFF. FUCKING. LIMITS!”

This last was screamed into Michael’s face. Under normal circumstances, Michael would have backed off when Trevor’s level of madness spiked to psychotic intensity, but his own quick-to-rise temper had been pushed beyond endurance over the last few weeks when it came to his former best friend and he shoved his face right back into Trevor’s.

“YEAH?! WELL GUESS WHAT? MY WIFE IS OFF. FUCKING. LIMITS TOO, ASSWIPE!”

They were both breathing heavily, foreheads almost touching. Trevor looked on the verge of head butting Michael, and Michael was preparing to duck and ram his superior bodyweight into Trevor’s solar plexus when, with mad eyes and a frustrated scream, Trevor threw his body away from Michael’s and staggered around in circles, gripping his head with his hands.

This cycle of psychotic rage followed by anguished pain was no stranger to Michael, and he wasn’t sure if seeing Trevor so unchanged after nearly ten years was endearing or fucking disheartening. His own anger bled away into the warmth of the wood beneath his sandaled feet and he quietly waited for Trevor to calm down enough to talk again – he knew better than to try and approach him while he was still reeling around like a drunken sailor.

When Trevor finally dropped to the boardwalk, head hung between his knees, Michael took a moment to look around before heading over to check on his own personal bundle of psychosis. They were out at the very end of the Del Perro pier and the few tourists that had been meandering around near the telescopes had quickly moved away when their shouting match turned into a screaming one.

Michael crouched down as close to Trevor as he could get without coming into swinging distance and shifted his gaze out towards the Pacific Ocean.

“Ah, T. We can’t keep doing this. I was tired of it ten years ago – I’m beyond tired of it now,”

There was a muffled sniff from Trevor’s direction.

“S’not true, Mikey. You didn’t want the quiet life back then and you can’t handle it now, it’s driving you fucking _nuts_. You just think you want it ‘cause you can’t face your real fucking desires,”

Michael tried not to roll his eyes, realised that Trevor couldn’t see him, and rolled them anyway.

“Sure, Trev. Whatever you say, man, but I’m tellin’ ya – I can’t keep doing this. Yeah, it was kinda fun when we were young – in fact, after a good fight we were both ready to fuck shit up on a grand fucking scale. But... now it just makes me tired, T. So fucking tired. And look at you–” he cast a hand towards Trevor. “You’re not exactly amped up, are you?”

Trevor lifted his head and stared at Michael blearily.

“Give me five minutes and bowl of ice and I’ll fuck up anything you want me to, Mikey,”

“You do that anyway, T! Like you said, ‘foot on the gas’, until you run into a fucking wall,”

“All the fucking way,” Trevor growled, a little of his fire flooding back into his voice.

Michael sighed and gingerly pushed himself upright.

“Yeah, well in that case I think it might be best if we stay away from each other for awhile. I got things I wanna do – you’ve got your enterprise... industry... fuck – whatever you call that toilet paper company you run. Now I’m not talkin’ nine years again, okay?” Michael added quickly, seeing a suspicious glint appear in Trevor’s eye. “Just... let’s go our separate ways for a bit,”

Trevor’s face was unreadable as he watched Michael fidget.

“How long are we talking here, Mikey?”

Michael scrunched up his face and shoved his hands into the pockets of his board shorts.

“Eh, I dunno – maybe three or four months... Or twelve,” he added to himself under his breath.

Evidently he hadn’t spoken quietly enough as Trevor pushed himself to his feet, far more gracefully than Michael had.

“Twelve months? Twelve fucking months?! That’s how you treat your oldest and most loyal fucking friend, ya snake?”

“Aaand we’re back to this. Jesus Christ, Trevor this is what I’m talking about! I’m so sick of this shit! And if we can’t work out how to get past what happened in North Yankton a fucking _decade_ ago, or at least get to the point where you don’t bring it up every fucking five minutes, I can’t see our Casablanca, not-quite-the-beginning-of-a-beautiful-fucking-friendship continuing,”

Michael moved up to meet Trevor face to face.

“We ain’t twenty fucking years old anymore, T. Grow the fuck up, or move the fuck on, because I am done taking shit from you for stuff I can’t change,”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed to slits and he loomed over an undaunted Michael.

“What? You don’t think that I’m _entitled_ to my fucking sense of betrayal, cupcake? You think that a few months of you feeling guilty _absolves_ you? Now all of a fucking sudden I’m being irrationally fucking ANGRY?! WELL FUCK YOU, TOWNLEY! FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU!”

Anyone else would have only seen the childish, fury-filled ranting, but Michael _knew_ Trevor, knew him deep down in his bones. Sixteen years of friendship before he’d lost and gained everything in Yankton and Michael could see something approaching true fear flash across Trevor’s eyes.

Michael almost voiced his realisation, but common sense stopped him – Trevor hated showing weakness and if Michael of all people pointed it out to him... well, Michael didn’t really feel like getting the shit beaten out of him, thank you very much. Instead, he gently grabbed two fistfuls of Trevor’s grubby t-shirt and spoke as calmly as he could.

“I’m not talking about just forgetting what happened... or never seeing each other again, T. And I know that our friendship... relationship... fuck... mortal enemies, whatever we are is never going to be anything near fucking normal, but I gotta think of my family,” Trevor grunted disgustedly and tried to move away. “ _Yes_ , them. And Mandy don’t like me hanging out with you anyway, so if you keep pushing me, and I start avoiding you, one of these days you’re going to show up at my house with a handful of fucking grenades or something, and things will End. Badly.” Michael punctuated each word with a subtle jab of his long, blunt finger.

Trevor almost seemed to pout, shifting on his feet.

“So what’s the play then, Mikey? If I can’t tell you to go fuck yourself, where’s the fun going to come from in our ‘rrrelationship?”

Trevor rolled his hips at the same time as he rolled his ‘r’s and Michael was still close enough to feel the shift of cloth and body against his own. He swallowed roughly and released his hold on Trevor’s shirt as though it was suddenly poisonous.

Trevor laughed, but it was dark and humourless.

“You’re so fucked up,” groaned Michael.

“Right back atcha, sugar tits,” purred Trevor. “It’s the reason we work so well together,”

“Worked,” Michael corrected absentmindedly.

Trevor’s eyes flickered and he scuffed at the boards with his dirty boots.

“Yeah... Yeah I mean worked. Back in the good ‘ol days when you had your priorities straight, when you still knew what _loyalty_ meant,”

This time, Michael didn’t even bother to respond; he simply nodded once to himself, turned around, and headed down the pier towards his car. He was past the Ferris wheel before a hasty thudding of boots grew louder behind him and Trevor was suddenly on his left, walking as casually as if they had been taking a stroll along the waterfront.

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna pussy out and spend the rest of your days in that horrifying mansion of yours on the couch with your dick out?”

Michael grimaced but managed not to reply.

“You think your family will be happy to see your fat ass, day after day? I’m the only thing keeping you interesting, baby – without me you’ll be nothing more than another useless Vinewood wannabe,”

Michael shook his head derisively, but kept walking. Trevor darted in front of him, knees bent, hands cocked like six shooters.

“Come on, Mikey just because you’re retired doesn’t mean you can’t have any fun!”

When Michael didn’t stop or change his course, Trevor stumbled and had to throw himself out of the way. As Michael kept walking, Trevor shouted at his retreating form.

“Ya can’t replace me, Mikey! I’m un-fucking-replaceable!”

Michael kept walking.

 

 

 

Michael drained the last of his whiskey and refocused foggy eyes on the television screen and whatever movie he’d put on that evening. It didn’t really seem to matter now and so when sleep tried to close his eyes he let it.

The next moment there was light spearing into his eyes from a crack in the curtains – the bright sun of mid-morning making an already unpleasant hangover worse. Michael groaned and rolled off the couch before half-crawling, half staggering to the kitchen, where he carefully put his head beneath the faucet and tried to drown his brain.

Three hours later and he felt more or less human and more than a little hungry. Raiding the fridge he managed to come up with a jar of peanut butter and three carrots. Not exactly a feast, but Michael couldn’t be bothered with the effort it would take to head out and get a proper meal.

He headed back to the couch, crunching on a carrot, and flicked on the TV. It was the usual midday programming – a choice of reruns, third-grade reality shows and strange advertisements selling exercise equipment. Just as he was about to give up he came across one of the news channel. It was mostly boring – world events, a local festival, the visit of some European royal – until suddenly one of the news anchors put a hand to their ear and then turned to address the camera.

“We are just now receiving reports of a terrifying car chase taking place on the Great Ocean Highway, where a man is attempting to evade police after a shootout in north Los Santos County. We go now to our bird in the sky for more details,”

The scene flicked to the view from a news helicopter as it coasted down the highway following what looked like an entire fucking army of police cars – and may in fact have actually included a few army jeeps. Ahead of that mass of black and white was a truck, swerving crazily, drunkenly – the driver taking pot shots over his shoulder with a sub machine gun and the occasional grenade.

Michael’s stomach had dropped even before the chopper had focused on the dusty red Bodhi, now it positively plummeted.

“Ah, fuck,” Michael dropped the remainder of his carrot on the coffee table in front of him and began to desperately look around for his phone, moving upstairs when he couldn’t find it in the living room.

It had been nearly two and a half months since he’d had any contact with Trevor, and while the time had been uneventful, it had also been incredibly fucking boring. He had hoped that the utter silence on Trevor’s part had been a good sign – that he might actually leave Michael alone for a comfortable few months, but one, dark corner of his mind had insisted that the silence was ominous – the calm before the psychotic storm that was Trevor Philips.

Michael finally managed to find his phone in the bathroom, sitting on top of the toilet’s cistern of all places. Running back downstairs he careened into the living room on one leg just in time to see the driver, who could only be Trevor taking pot shots at the news chopper. A few pings and suddenly the camera was whirling around through the air with an accompanying scream followed shortly by a splat and the crunch of static before the signal went dead.

The news anchors look horrified as the report cut back to the news room, but Michael barely spared them a glance, frantically punching through the channels until he found another news channel covering Trevor’s spree. The maniacal son of a bitch was still weaving through traffic on the highway, but he was close to Del Perro now – soon he’d have options to escape his pursuers – sharp corners, alleyways and underpasses.

Michael scrolled without looking to the bottom of his contacts list and stabbed the screen over Trevor’s name. It rang for a surprisingly short amount of time before the sound of an over-revved engine and the wail of sirens assaulted Michael’s ears.

“Whozat?” shouted Trevor on the other end of the line. “’Cause if it ain’t important I suggest you call back later or I’ll find you, and I’ll pull your spine out through your ass!”

This was all followed by a laugh that turned into a piercing scream of exhilaration, as Trevor swerved off the highway and onto one of the side streets that led into the heart of Los Santos.

Michael grimaced – there was no doubt that Trevor was on something – most likely several somethings judging by his driving and the fact that he’d gotten himself into this situation in the first place when they were all supposed to be lying low. Another whoop of delight came through the speaker before Michael replied.

“T!” Michael shouted into the phone. “T, it’s me, Michael!” The screech of tires and a burst of gunfire met his words.

“Mikey? Preeetty sure you’re not talking to me anymore, so this can’t be yooouuu,” The last was spoken in a singsong voice accompanied by more gunfire and a slew of swearing.

Michael swore to himself and paced back and forth in front of his excessively large couch.

“No, T it’s definitely me – who else would be calling you in the middle of a fucking police chase?”

Trevor simply laughed in reply.

“Look,” said Michael. “Can you shake the cops, or do I have to head out there and create a diversion for you and your stupid truck?”

“Nah, I’m gonna shake ‘em in Little Seoul – lotsa alleyways in there, ghost-Michael,”

Michael didn’t like the sound of that at all, but there was very little he could do while Trevor was plastered all across the twelve o’clock news, except maybe to help him lose the air support.

“O-okay you need to drop that airborne tail you got, T. Get under one of the overpasses between Little Seoul and Downtown if you can,”

“Rrroger that, Mikey-boy,”

The Bodhi on the television swerved wildly into a back alley before continuing to wind its way towards the La Puerta Freeway. Many of the police cars were lost along the way, but if he didn’t manage to get rid of the choppers soon, they’d all be back before long. Another few turns and suddenly the Bodhi was lost beneath the concrete of the freeway.

“Great, Trev now you just need to make sure you come out a looong way away from where you went in, okay?”

“I do know how to lose a fucking tail, Michael. I know you’ve got more experience at disappearing than I do, but give me a little fucking credit, eh?”

Michael clenched the phone in his hand and tried counting to ten like his shrink had suggested. He got to three before he was speaking back into the phone.

“Just find a fucking quite place to exit, dump the fucking truck and then come the fuck over here so that I can make sure you’re not dead, and then _fucking kill you myself_ ,”

“Grumpy,” muttered Trevor as the TV showed the police vainly trying to rediscover his vehicle.

Michael unceremoniously ended the call and threw his phone onto the couch with as much force as he could muster, where it bounced a few times before getting lost behind one of the pillows. He kept watching the TV until, bored with the lack of action, the broadcasters switched back to their regularly scheduled programs. Sighing with relief, he moved into the kitchen, poured himself a whiskey and sat down at the table. It was at least three fingers and he sipped it slowly, but it was still a few minutes after he’d finished drinking before there was a screech of tires in the driveway and a pounding on the front door.

“Open up, Mikey, or I swear I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your fucking house down with a rocket launcher!”

Michael raced to the door, but opened it as casually as he could manage. Trevor stood on the porch, dressed in what at some point had probably been his white t-shirt and grey slacks, but were now a horrifying ensemble of various shades of splattered red and brown, with the occasional wet chunk still clinging to the material.

“Fuck! Did anyone see you like that on the way here?!” sputtered Michael. “I mean, should I be expecting a visit from the fucking army in about five minutes?”

Trevor shook his head and sprayed Michael with a mist of someone else’s blood.

“Nah, I lost the army when I ducked into the side alley near that noodle place in L-Seoul. We’re good, Mikey!”

 _We are so far from fucking good it’s a miracle that the devil hasn’t sued us for copyright violation_ , Michael thought.

“For fuck’s sake,” he exclaimed instead. “Come in before you get us both arrested, you goddamn moron!”

A swaying Trevor eyed him suspiciously but staggered into the house anyway, Michael shutting the door firmly behind him.

“Ok, now we need to get yo— No! Don’t sit on the fucking couch! How am I supposed to explain a Trevor-shaped bloodstain on our white couch to Amanda, huh?” Trevor shrugged from where he hovered over the piece of furniture in question.

“Just... go up to the bathroom and clean yourself up, okay? I’ll see if I can find you some clothes that fit and get rid of—" Michael tried to duck as Trevor walked past him, throwing his blood-wet shirt and pants at his chest. “—Exhibit A and B for the prosecution,” he finished, disgustedly.

 

 

 

The clothes... and the underpants that Trevor had thrown through the bathroom door were now all burning merrily away in a trashcan on the back patio, and Michael was rummaging through his own clothes, trying to find something that would fit Trevor’s tall, well-built frame. One of his own shirts should be fine, but his pants just weren’t going cut it – they were far too short. Jimmy’s would be the same and Tracey never brought her boyfriends over, so there was no chance of reclaimed, ex-boyfriend jeans either.

Michael walked back to the bathroom door and listened for the sound of the shower.

“Hey, T you done? Look, I can’t find you any trousers of mine that’d fit ya, so unless you want to wear Amanda’s yoga pants I may have to go out and grab you something,”

There was no response and Michael leaned his ear against the door to see if the sound of the shower was obscuring his words, but there was only the quiet drone of the exhaust fan.

“T? You still alive in there man? Hey, don’t make me come in there while you’re still naked and bloody,”

His poor attempt at humour faded into the silence and Michael drummed his fingers nervously on the wooden frame.

“Okay, Trevor. Look, we’ve only got an hour or so before Amanda’s supposed to get home, so I’m going to go out and grab you some new clothes and then we’ll get you out of here. I won’t be gone long just... don’t leave the bathroom,”

Michael didn’t wait for a reply and headed for the garage. Trevor would hate it, but the nearest clothing store was a Ponsonby’s down in Rockford Hills, and Michael didn’t plan on leaving Trevor alone in his house for any longer than absolutely necessary.

Heaping a handful of designer shirts, slacks and underwear over his arm and grabbing a pair of shoes from the rack that looked vaguely in Trevor’s size, he dashed up to the counter and threw them at the cashier, who was looking at him as though he were some kind of insane hobo. Three grand later and he was dumping the clothes in the back seat of his car and gunning it up the street.

Michael pulled up beside the dented blue sedan that Trevor had nearly rammed into the front of his house and smiled in relief when he saw that the house was neither on fire, nor flooding. In fact, the house was still eerily silent when he walked through the front door. When he reached the upstairs bathroom the low whir of the fan had been joined by the quiet rain of water on tiles.

He knocked quietly, but there was still no response. Steeling himself, Michael pushed open the door. The shower was indeed running but the cascade of water was weak, the faucet barely on, and beneath it sat Trevor – one knee drawn across his chest as slow rivulets of diluted blood ran down his skin. Michael dropped the new clothes across the edge of the bath and crept closer to his old friend.

“Jesus, T you managed to outrun the entire Los Santos police department – you couldn’t keep going long enough to wash your nasty self?”

Trevor rolled his head upwards to lock gazes with Michael and gave him one of his silent ‘fuck you’ looks. With the worst of the gore washing away, Michael could see that it wasn't just the blood that had made Trevor look so terrible. His skin – never in the best condition, now hung sallow and thin against his face and his five o-clock shadow looked more like a three day beard. Even his eyes were worse than usual – bloodshot and watering... and shooting daggers at Michael.

“You haaad to interrupt my little Sunday drive, didn’t you, Mikey? Ignore me for three fucking months,”

“Two and a half,” interrupted Michael.

“Shut up. Three fucking months and as soon as I start having fun, Captain Cocktease decides to crash the party,”

Michael chose to ignore the colourful epithet.

“Yeah, well I wasn’t the first person to ‘crash your party’ – you had plenty of other uninvited guests too,”

Trevor eyed Michael – his pupils dark and overblown in the diffused light of the bathroom.

“Who says they weren’t invited, Mikey-boy,”

Michael rocked back on his heels. Trevor had always been reckless, but utterly suicidal?

“Why... Why would you want that many cops to chase you, Trevor? I get having that kinda heat after a big job, but in Sandy-fucking-Shores? Jesus Christ, you had armoured cars chasing you! What the fuck possessed you?..”

Trevor staggered to his feet and Michael quickly looked away – once, a long time ago when they were closer to boys than men, they had stripped off in front of each other like boys in a locker room. That had changed as they grew older, especially when Mandy had come on the scene. Now, Trevor rewarded Michael’s delicate sensibilities with a snort of derision.

“Like I said, ya can’t face it,”

Michael turned to face Trevor before he really thought the action through, but the other man had already curved away, wrenching the faucet open with a vicious strength and angling his whole body beneath the hot spray of water.

The view was a little less graphic than the alternative, but Michael’s gaze was still drawn to the curves of Trevor’s thighs and backside – contoured as they were by dirty red water. Michael shook himself – was the fuck was he doing staring at his friend’s ass?

“There are clothes on the bath over there. Don’t take too long though – if Mandy finds your here both our lives won’t be worth living,”

“That’ll be a real step down for you I’m sure, sugar tits,”

“Aw, fuck you, Trevor,”

“Fuck you too, Mikey,”

It was the way Trevor said the words so lovingly, that sent Michael from the room faster than he intended to.

 

 

 

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

Michael groaned into the pillow where he lay on his bed and rolled over onto his back.

“...the fuck is what, Trevor?”

Trevor burst into Michael’s bedroom, naked but for a pair of dark blue underpants, his damp hair sticking out at all angles after what Michael could only assume was a rigorous overworking with a towel. He was accompanied by a roil of black energy – the offending articles fisted in his hands.

“THESE, Michael. These fucking pretentious pieces of yuppie bullshit. I wouldn’t wear any of this crap if it meant I could fuck an entire football team,”

“That’s nice, T real nice. Maybe you could just choose the least fucking offensive pieces so that I can get you the hell outta here?”

Trevor dropped the clothes on the floor.

“Well if ya didn’t want me around, Mikey you probably shouldn’t have rung me up and insisted that I come over to sooth your fears surrounding my untimely demise,”

Michael sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“There is a difference between wanting to make sure you’re not dead and wanting to make sure you don’t land me in divorce court,” Michael replied.

“Don’t need my help with that, Mikey-boy I’m sure you’re doing just fiiine on your own,”

Michael stood up and stalked over to Trevor, his finger pointing accusatively towards him.

“And you wonder why I wanted to avoid you for as long as I possibly could. Fuck, Trevor! I have enemies that I get along better with than you!”

Trevor’s eyes shadowed and he darted his head around the room as though he were looking for targets.

“What fucking enemies? Who are they? I’ll blow them all the way to fucking CHINA!”

“Woah, T,” Michael threw his hands up in defence or surrender – he wasn’t sure which. “I ain’t talking about anyone in particular,” _And this probably wasn’t a good line of conversation to follow while Trevor was still off his face on... whatever it was he’d taken_.

“Just... put on those pants and that shirt and we’ll get out of here and go somewhere quiet, hey?” Michael continued.

Trevor looked a little crazed for a moment more, before he shook himself like a dog and gingerly picked up the clothes that Michael was pointing to. He dressed in the same way that Trevor did everything – with a high degree of violence and Michael winced in sympathy with the material – not that it would have lasted very long with Trevor anyway.

“Alright,” Michael began as Trevor thunked down on the bed and began tying up his shoe laces. “We should—”

The heavy sound of a car door shutting, followed by the electronic beep of a lock had Michael racing towards the window. Peeling back the curtain he swore.

“Ah fuck, it’s Amanda. Shit, shit, shit!”

Trevor bared his teeth in a smile and shook his head derisively.

“Such a fucking pussy,”

Michael dropped the curtain and rounded on him.

“Oh, you think _I’m_ the one who’s a coward?” Michael began. “Well let me put it this way you stupid son of a bitch,” he continued, shifting to a quick, patronising tone as if he were trying to speak to a child.

“Little Mandy finds Mikey and Trevor playing together, even though little Mikey _promised_ Mandy that he wouldn’t let the nasty little Trevor come over anymore. Now, little Mandy spits the fucking _dummy_ and tells Mikey that it’s her or Trevor, and Mikey – who still loves Mandy for some hopeless fucking reason, chooses her over his psychopathic little friend,”

Trevor’s jaw clenched and he dropped his gaze to the floor.

“So, little Mikey stops seeing little Trevor, and while he does miss some of the crazy shit they used to do together, he doesn’t miss the incessant fucking verbal assaults or the complete inability for little Trevor to get the fuck along with Mikey’s family,”

Michael circled around the now near-vibrating form of Trevor and shrugged bitterly, dropping the condescending tone.

“In the end, Michael thinks that’s it’s probably Trevor who suffers more as the years pass by, because Michael might miss Trevor, but Trevor is fucking _terrified_ of having to live without someone there to call him on his _shit_ , and for some reason that’s been Michael’s goddamn job since they were twenty fucking years old!”

Michael crouched beneath Trevor’s downcast form and cocked his head up at his friend.

“Now how’s that for a fucking _pussy_?”

Trevor roared like an animal and rammed Michael back towards the window. It was only Michael’s long-honed reflexes that saved him from crashing through the glass. Hands on Trevor’s waist, he dug his left heel into the carpet and used their momentum to wrench the taller man to the right, swinging them both around a hundred and eighty degrees and shoving Trevor onwards.

Trevor managed to brace himself against the frame of the window and without pause, wrenched himself away with what looked to Michael like painful speed. Before Trevor could do anything but bare his teeth at Michael, a voice pierced the air.

“Michael? Is that you? What the hell is going on up there? I swear, if you’re fucking that stripper again I am going straight to the lawyers!”

“Pot calling kettle,” Trevor remarked from where he crouched at the window, ready to spring.

Michael shushed him with a hasty wave of his hand.

“Decision time, T – you wanna have one, last knockout fight before we never see each other again, or do you want to get the fuck outta here before my wife sees us?”

“I Don’t. Like. Ultimatums,” growled Trevor.

“Too. Fucking. Bad!” Michael retorted. “Now choose!”

A cascade of emotions pulled Trevor’s face into multiple, unflattering expressions, but eventually he quietly roared in frustration and marched towards Michael. Michael fought the urge to back away or grab a lamp to beat Trevor over the head with and hoped to god that he was reading his friend right.

With a grunt of effort, Trevor grabbed Michael around the waist and hoisted him over his shoulder.

“FUCK you’re heavy!” grunted Trevor and slapped Michael on the ass as he staggered towards to window that they had both so recently nearly ploughed through.

Michael was too shocked to do anything until Trevor had already reached the window and was jimmying open the lock. Stepping out onto the balcony, Trevor peered over the edge and nearly dropped Michael.

“Jesus, T! Put me down! There are better ways to kill me than dropping me on my fucking head from a great height,”

“Not many that I can think of,” retorted Trevor, but put Michael down nevertheless.

Michael peered over the edge himself.

“You know, I pushed a guy over this one time and he survived,” He turned to face Trevor. “If we j—”

With what sounded an awful lot like a war cry, Trevor charged Michael, hugged him around the waist and threw them over the planter and off the balcony. They rolled when they hit the driveway but it still hurt like fuck.

“Owww. Jesus, T we could have just fucking _jumped_!”

“Ugh, this was quicker,”

Michael shook his head and reached over to help pull Trevor up.

“No it fucking wasn’t. Now come on, we’ll take that piece of shit car you rolled up in – I don’t want your damn incriminating evidence stuck in my driveway anyway,”

Michael reached the driver’s door first.

“I’ll drive – I’ve had enough near-death experiences today thank you very much,”

Trevor shrugged noncommittally and swung around to the passenger side.

“Now where are we heading?” Michael asked as he backed them carefully out of the driveway. “I’m guessing that your, ah... home in Sandy Shores isn’t a safe place to go to ground right now?”

“That and it’s probably on fire by now,” replied Trevor.

“Huh?” Michael glanced at Trevor. “Oh fire? Why?”

“Oh some gasoline, some lighter fluid... a shootout with the cops...”

“O-okay. So where can we go?”

“I dunno, the club?”

“Yeah,” Michael agreed. “The club’s probably a good idea – you can crash there until you’re a little less high,”

“Fuck that, Mikey. As soon as we get there I’m lighting up like a fucking _Christmas tree_!”

Trevor slammed his fists on the dash to emphasise his point and turned a manic smile on Michael.

“You never change, T,” sighed Michael.

“Well, why the fuck would I?” Trevor replied. “You either live or you die. I choose to live, cupcake,”

“Is that what you call it?” Michael snorted.

“ _Yes_ , it fucking _is_ , thank you very much, Mr. I-Hate-My-Own-Life. I don’t need your goddamn approval,”

“Look, I’m your friend and I’m worried okay, you dumb bastard,”

“Well ya sure as shit weren’t interested the last few months, so why the fuck should you care now?”

Michael sighed and wrapped his hands across the wheel as he took a corner.

“T, I didn’t avoid you for months because I didn’t care, I did it because I’m _sick_ of caring and getting fucking nowhere with you,”

“Yeah, well running away – that’s how you always deal with your problems isn’t it, Mikey?”

“Fuck you, Philips,”

“Fuck you right back, Townley,” Trevor grinned and waggled his eyebrows at Michael.

Michael almost whooped in relief when the Vanilla Unicorn’s lurid billboard came into view. Pulling into one of the parking spaces behind the building, Michael moved to get out of the car, when Trevor’s heavy hand curled around his arm.

“You’re staying for a skin dance or two, aren’t ya sugar tits?”

“No... Remember? Amanda’s at home... Michael’s been naughty... I gotta get back as soon possible,”

Trevor jerked his hand from Michael's skin as though burned and turned away, kicking the door open and throwing himself out of the car, heading straight towards the back door in the side alley.

“Fuck,” Michael muttered beneath his breath before he swung out of the door and slammed it shut behind him. By the time he reached the dingy back-office of the club, Trevor was already rummaging around the dirty fridge for something to drink, or at least, that’s what Michael hoped.

“...You gonna be okay laying low here for awhile, T? You do remember how to do that right?” Michael tried to keep it light and friendly, but Trevor swung around, beer in hand, pinning him with a burning black look and Michael took an involuntary step back.

In retrospect it was the worst thing to have done, and Michael knew it before his back foot had fully settled on the floor. Trevor growled – a low, rumbling sound, his eyes glittering like a predator’s, and he began to slowly stalk towards Michael, who stayed frozen in place.

“Oh, I remember Michael. It’s _you_ who seems to have forgotten how we do it. You see—” Trevor had prowled right up to Michael, locking eyes with him. “—When you need to lay low after a job, you stock up on booze and shitty food, rent a motel room in some godforsaken back water, and shut yourself away with your best fucking friend until the resulting shit storm has passed. Of course, if your best friend turns out to be a fucking _snake_ that’ll turn around and bite you on the ass as soon as share a fucking beer with you... well, then you’re left to your own devices which, for me Mikey involves twenty grams of meth, a shit load of alcohol and highway target practice!”

Michael didn’t dare break eye contact – instead, he squared his shoulders and planted his feet in a solid stance.

“Well don’t that sound like the stupidest fucking approach to laying low I’ve ever fucking heard,”

Trevor growled again, his eye drifting down towards, Michael’s throat.

“Fuck you, Michael,” he snarled, gravel in his voice.

Michael grinned viciously, sensing the upper hand and craned his neck towards Trevor until they were almost touching.

“Don't you wish,” he whispered with as much venom as he could muster.

Trevor made a strangled, inarticulate sound and grabbed at the lapels of Michael’s jacket. His eyes were desperate and full of a deep-seated, twisting pain.

“Come on, T what’s it going to be? Make a move, or move the fuck on,”

Trevor looked confused for a moment, and really, Michael couldn’t blame him – where had that come from? He had meant bring all their bickering to a head, to clear the air once and for all, but perhaps if he were honest with himself, Michael was just as twisted up about where they stood in each other’s lives as Trevor was. The confusion that had clouded Trevor’s face passed quickly and a fiery longing replaced it, but Michael had already turned away, forcibly shaking off the strange moment and throwing his hands up in surrender.

“ _Fuck_. Maybe we both need therapy,”

He laughed mirthlessly, still facing away from a silent Trevor.

“Heh, maybe my shrink could give us a twofer – not that he’s done jack shit for me in our one on one sessions,”

There was a scuff and a shifting of clothes.

“I don’t do ‘therapy’, Michael,” – Michael could hear the quotation marks as though they’d been drawn in the air. “And the only group _anything_ you and I need to do to feel better is a fucking bank job,”

Michael turned to face him.

“Really? You have twenty million dollars and a thriving criminal enterprise out in Bumfuck Nowhere and you want more?!”

Trevor threw his arms wide and grinned like a car salesman.

“I always want more, Mikey! You know me,”

Michael laughed.

“Yeah I do, T that’s the problem. You’re like a fucking twister in a trailer park, man – you chew things up and you spit them out, but you’re never satisfied, you’re always fucking _hungry_ ,”

“Fuckin’ A, Mikey, fuck-ing- _A_ , but here’s the kicker, cupcake – so are you. Problem is you’re a fucking coward and you won’t admit it,”

Michael scoffed and turned away, but Trevor grabbed his arm and pulled him back around.

“Like you told me, money don’t bring you happiness. You need the rush, the fucking _high_ of a job well done just as much as I do! I can see it underneath all that fucking flab – the old Michael, the _real_ Michael! You’ve just gotta let go of this fucking middle-class America, bullshit fantasy! Just you and me, it’ll be like the good old days!”

Trevor was beaming, alight with a fire that Michael remembered warming them both in the cold snow of North Yankton, before he fucked everything over to save a family that barely existed anymore.

Michael was tempted, he was so tempted. He could pretend he was twenty-something years old again, carefree and without responsibilities, just him and his psychotic best friend racing from one glorious disaster to the next...

Or... he could be the mature, forward-thinking half of their dynamic due, just as he’d always been, and remember the fact that they were closer to fifty than they were thirty and that, like them or not, Michael had family, had _blood_ that he needed to look out for.

Trevor couldn’t forget and he couldn’t forgive and that made him dangerous.

“Not like this,” Michael replied quietly, easing Trevor’s hand away from his bicep. “Not when I can’t trust you, and you can’t trust me. It’s not like it was in Yankton, we’re broken, don’t you get that? If you can’t trust your crew to watch your back, you can’t trust the _job_ ,”

Michael placed a hand on either side of Trevor’s neck, his thumbs resting lightly behind the curve of his jaw.

"You know it, T. We may have always been kinda fucked up, but this is _not_ an effective working relationship anymore,”

“So you’re just going to give up like the pathetic sack of crap you are,” Trevor snarled, but there was no heat in it, only a terrible, hopeless finality.

Michael groaned in frustration and dropped his head onto Trevor’s chest, rolling it back and forth once, twice, before he raised his eyes to Trevor’s once more.

“Maybe we just need a little time apart, to get our bearings you know? Everything’s still too volatile,”

Trevor was about to reply when an irritating chirping began to emanate from Michael’s pocket. Pulling out his phone, Michael swore when he saw the caller id.

“Ah, shit,” he exclaimed before jabbing the answer button. “Hey sweetie, how are ya?.. No, I wasn’t at home an hour ago, I’ve been out all morning...” he darted a glance at Trevor whose expression was darkening like a thundercloud. “...No, Mandy, baby, Trevor hasn’t been by the house since he, ah dropped in a couple of months ago,”

Michael wandered around the room, eyes downcast. Trevor never took his hooded gaze off him, his head swivelling in whatever direction Michael walked, like a hawk examining its next meal.

“So... was that it or did you want me to pick something up before I head home? You know – bread, milk... a Prada handbag?”

He stilled as Amanda said something on the other end of the line.

“Well, why didn’t you start with that, Amanda geeze! You know he charges exorbitant fucking fees if you miss a session! No, I’m going. I’m _going_! I’m g— _byeIloveyou_ ,”

“Fuck!” he swore as he punched the screen with a heavy finger and shoved the offending object back into his pocket.

“I gotta go, T duty calls,”

“Duty,” murmured Trevor. “Going to see a shrink is a fucking duty now?”

“I never said it was my shrink,”

“Well,” Trevor exhaled as he stretched his long body, “I doubt the lovely Amanda’s calling to remind you about your tennis lessons, so yeah, I’m going with shrink,”

Michael gestured noncommittally.

“Well, either way I’m off to try and better myself. Have fun getting so off your face that you can’t tell whether you’re fucking a guy or a girl,”

“Who says it won’t be both,” Trevor retorted as Michael smiled mockingly and headed for the door. He had his fingers on the handle when Trevor spoke again.

“So... You gonna swing by and check up on me after your little emotional enema? See if I’m being a good little boy?”

“Nope,” Michael replied bluntly. “I told you, we’re no good to each other right now, and you don’t wanna work on that,” He threw his hands up in defeat and smiled. “Until you actually want to try and fix this,” he waved a finger back and forth between them. “I am officially _out_ ,”

With that, Michael opened the door with a flourish and was gone in an eye-searing flash of midday glare. He forced himself to try and forget Trevor standing alone in that dark, filthy room as he made his way to the stolen car that was still parked out the back.

“I really need to dump this thing,” he muttered to himself as he opened the door.

There was a good spot underneath the Del Perro overpass that would only leave him with a short, three minute walk to Friedlander’s office. With the engine running, his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the rear-view mirror, Michael nearly had a heart attack when a thud followed by a voice joined him in the passenger’s seat.

“So, where is this psycho therapist of yours anyway?”

“Jesus, Trevor what the fuck are you doing?!”

“Makin’ a move, Mikey. Makin’ a move,”

Michael stared at Trevor, uncomprehending, his mouth hanging open. When Trevor refused to elaborate, Michael nodded dazedly and turned back to the steering wheel.

“Oookay then. Well, I’m going to dump the car in Del Perro first – we’ve held on to it for too long anyway. The Doc works on the beachfront a couple of minutes away, won’t take too long to get there,”

Trevor nodded next to him, eyebrows quirked.

“Hmm, a lively stroll down the boardwalk, just what I need to clear the cobwebs,”

Trevor stretched until his hands were gouging scratches into the cheap plastic of the roof, his brand new, badly-buttoned shirt riding up his chest. He turned to Michael, who was caught, unmoving, hands still glued to the wheel.

“Well, come on, sugar tits what are ya waiting for? Let’s go talk to this greedy, manipulative fucker!”

“T, you understand that we’re... that _I’m_ going to meet him in a way that ends in all parties leaving with their limbs attached, right? This is not the kind of ‘talk’ that ends in garbage bags and a bowl of your truly horrifying stew,”

“So little faith, Michael,”

“I mean it, T,” Michael warned as he pulled out of the Unicorn’s parking lot. “Amanda would fucking _lose_ it if she found out that I offed my shrink. You pull any kinda shit, you wait outside,”

Roger that, Mikey,” Trevor replied, his hands laced behind his head, feet crossed and resting on the dashboard. “Whatever you say.”

 

 

 

“It looks like a chocolate box fucked an aquarium,” said Trevor, staring up at the boxy beachside office.

“Of _course_ it does,” Michael agreed sarcastically. “Now come on, I’m already running late. Are you sure you don’t want to, I dunno go get drunk on the boardwalk somewhere while I go up? Like you said, you don’t really do therapy and I barely get my money’s worth as it is anyway,”

“Well then you need me, brother! ‘Cause it sounds like he’s done a real fucking number on you and ol’ Trevor is here to make sure that _this_ time you get your money’s worth,”

Michael threw his gaze up to the cloudless sky and exhaled sharply.

“This is the worst fucking idea that either of us have ever had, and I include the time that we though lake skating in May was a good idea,”

Trevor scoffed as Michael headed into the building.

“That’s only because you fell through the ice, lard ass.”

 

 

 

Dr. Friedlander was already sitting in his low slung chair when Michael opened his office door, Trevor sauntering casually in behind him.

“Ah, Michael! You’re a little late... I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge you holiday rates to cover the delay...”

Michael dismissed him with a hand as he threw himself down on the couch.

“Yeah, yeah, Doc. Whatever you say,”

“Hang on,” said Trevor as he crept around the doctor’s chair. “You’re charging him _more_ for having to do fuck all?”

“...T,” Michael warned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Doctor Friedlander turned to a puzzled look towards Michael and then back at Trevor.

“May I ask what you’re doing here?.. ‘ _T_ ’, was it? These are usually closed sessions, and Michael has a lot of anger-induced and psychosexual issues that we need to work through today,”

“Hey!” Michael exclaimed. “Where’s the goddamned doctor-patient confidentiality?”

Trevor bent down and peered at Friedlander’s face, his lip curling like a dog’s.

“I’d say it’s going for about seven hundred bucks an hour, Mikey,”

Doctor Friedlander tried to backtrack awkwardly.

“Well, I... I assumed that you must be reasonably _close_ to Michael and aware of his, ah... issues. I— If he wants you to join in his session. I... I... I—”

“Youyouyou what? Thought I’d be a pushover like Mikey-boy over there?”

Trevor slammed his hands down on the arms of the doctor’s chair, his eyes glaring and murderous.

“You fucking head doctors are all the same! You twist and turn things until your… _victims_ can’t tell what’s a fucking lie and what’s truth anymore! You turn honest, vicious, _glorious_ criminals into whining little turds, that have lost _everything_ that makes them fearless, and dangerous, and _FUCKING PERFECT_!”

“Whoa, whoa, T. _T_!” Michael jumped up and wrapped his thick arms around Trevor’s waist as he lunged at the doctor. “Calm the fuck down! TREVOR!”

Friedlander had fallen over the back of his chair and was scrabbling to push himself up against the wall behind him.

“ _Trevor_?! _This_ is _Trevor_?! _The_ Trevor?! Oh no, oh no no no – from what you’ve told me, he’s a certifiable psychopath!”

Michael grunted as Trevor twisted violently in his grip.

“ _Not_... _helping_... _Doc_!” he gasped.

Trevor twisted again and growled – Michael could feel it reverberating through Trevor's chest. He squeezed his grip tighter and shook Trevor a little.

“Trevor, if you can’t fucking behave yourself you can just stay outside, remember? Re-MEM-ber?!”

Michael turned them both and shoved Trevor away from him towards the window. Trevor barely staggered, before he whirled around and tried to advance on the doctor again.

Michael settled into a blocking stance and shoved his hands against Trevor’s upper chest. Trevor growled in response, his eyes all for the doctor. Michael leaned forward and spoke quietly and firmly into Trevor’s ear.

“You wanted to come along, Trevor well now you’re here. If you want to stay, you need to pretend to be a vaguely normal human being for forty fucking minutes. Now, can you do that, or do I need to reschedule my appointment for a time when you’re on the other side of the fucking county, you crazy bastard?”

Trevor kept staring at Friedlander for a moment, but eventually his eyes flickered to Michael, uncertainty colouring them. It was almost like he was swimming up from the depths of his own mind, Michael reflected – or like a dreamer pushing through the cobwebs of a nightmare.

“M?”

“Yeah man, I’m here. Now sit down before you give me a fucking heart attack, okay?”

“Yeah... okay...”

Both men sat down on the long leather couch while Dr. Friedlander shakily got to his feet.

“Well,” he began. “That was, ah quite instructive gentlemen, thank you,”

He pulled his chair upright, made a few half-hearted sweeps of the seat cushion, and then gingerly sat down.

“Now I’m... not sure er... what help I can be to you today, Michael. Our sessions are usually a little more... discreet,”

He steepled his hands together and crossed his legs in what was a vain attempt to look at ease and in control.

“Perhaps it would be better if we rescheduled, hmmm?”

Michael smiled slowly, and Friedlander’s serene expression faltered.

“Actually, Doc I was kinda hoping we could make this a two for one kinda session. You see, me and Trev have a few things we gotta work through and who better to help us work through it than the most expensive shrink in LS?”

The doctor uncrossed and recrossed his legs repeatedly.

“Ah, well... Haha, maybe... That is to say there are plenty of good therapists that I could recommend who are better equipped to deal with this particular, erm...” he darted a glance at Trevor. “...Issue,”

“Shame,” Michael clapped his hands together and leaned forward on the couch. “But I suppose I can always take my business... and my _millions of dollars_ elsewhere...”

The doctor began to cough uncontrollably and bolted upright.

“Now, now, Michael I didn’t mean to say that we need to terminate our _entire_ professional relationship! In... in fact, perhaps I was a bit too hasty, I... I’m sure we can come to some arrangement, some sort of, ah payment plan,”

“Dear _god_ , I can see you drooling from here, you pathetic sack of shit,” Trevor remarked, distaste written across his features.

Michael elbowed him gently in the ribs and got a foot to the instep for his trouble.

“Ah, fuck!”

Trevor only quirked an eyebrow in response.

“What sort of issues are you two facing, Michael? Perhaps we can settle on an approach that works for, er both of you,”

 _Where to begin_? Michael thought. _Our whole history is one long laundry list of fucked up behaviours_.

“Well... I guess it mostly hinges around what happened back in North Yankton nine years ago. I mean, we got other crap we probably oughta deal with too, but I’m pretty sure Ludendorff kinda brings all our fucked up shit together in one big, nasty-ass pile,”

“It’s not _our_ fucked up shit that magically revealed itself in Yankton, _Michael_ – it’s _your_ fucked up shit,” growled Trevor. “ _I_ was loyal, _I_ was in it until the end, _I_... loved you like a brother. _You_ on the other hand betrayed me, betrayed everything we did together for sixteen fucking years! Now you want fucking _absolution_? Uh uh, Mikey, you fucked me over, now you have to deal with the consequences!”

“Then why are you still here?!” Michael shouted. “If you fucking hate me so much for what I did to you, why do you keep following me around like a lost fucking _puppy_?!”

Trevor knelt sideways on the couch, looming over Michael.

“Because I love you, you fat fuck! Because I’mloyal and because I mourned you for nine fucking years while you were sunning you ass in Los Santos! You owe me, Michael and I ain’t going _anywhere_ until you pay up!”

The doctor held his hand up in a gesture of mediation, but Michael ignored it, springing up from the couch and rounding on Trevor.

“And how much do I have to pay before you forgive me, huh? Before you trust that I won’t betray you again?!”

Trevor scoffed.

“Well that’s never gonna happen, sugar. You can set us up on a _thousand_ jobs, and there’ll _aallways_ be that little voice in the back of my head telling me to watch for the bullet from your gun,”

“What? _Little_ _voice_? How would you hear it among all those other fucking voices you’ve got in your head, you psycho?!”

“Argh, _screw_ you!”

“No, _screw you_!”

“Gentlemen, _gentlemen_!.. This gets us nowhere,” cajoled Dr. Friedlander. “Now, in most couple’s therapy, sharing the major issues and how they make each person feel, in a judgment-free environment usually helps more than heated arguments that could quite possibly end in gunfire of some sort and me having to move offices. Now—”

Michael jabbed a finger at the doctor as he sat back down.

“This ain’t couple’s therapy, Doc,” he said grimly.

“Well, I’m not so sure, Michael,” Friedlander replied. “You two had a relationship that spanned almost twenty years before your, er ‘estrangement’. There’s betrayal, unfaithfulness, jealously... a certain level of unresolved sexual tension...”

“Whoa!” Michael exclaimed.

“What have I always said,” grinned Trevor. “High levels of repression,” He leaned towards the doctor. “Comes from being an appearance-obsessed footballer waaay back in the day,”

“Oh, screw you, Trevor,”

Trevor gestured towards Michael, his palms facing upwards as if to say, _See what I mean_?

Michael covered his face with a hand and sighed tiredly.

“Look... this isn’t helping. What did you say about... non-judgmental whatevers? Let’s try that, huh? Before I jump out the fucking window,”

“Of course,” the doctor replied. “Perhaps we should start with Ludendorff and then move on to the events of a few months ago when you re-entered each other’s lives. Um, Trevor, why don’t you go first? Describe your version of what happened nine years ago and how it made you feel,”

Trevor smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant.

“Well, Doc nine years ago my best friend betrayed me, probably trying to get me killed in the process and then faked his death to save his own worthless hide,”

The doctor shifted uncomfortably.

“A little offhand perhaps, but how did it make you _feel_ , Trevor? Be _truthful_ with your emotions; don’t hide behind sarcasm or indifference,”

Michael tensed, worried that Friedlander was pushing buttons on Trevor that were better left untouched, better yet, left _unseen_ behind six inches of fucking concrete, but Trevor only glared at the shrink before scratching his head.

“I dunno... Hurt, betrayed. How the fuck do you think I feel? Ugh _felt_. He was my _brother_ ,” Trevor beat his chest with his fist. “I’d have followed him fucking _anywhere_!”

Trevor hung his head in his hands as Michael looked on, more surprised than he wanted to be.

“I knew, _I knew_ I was losing him,” he whispered. “So I pushed him harder, made him go for bigger jobs, hoped that the fucking niggling warning I had in the back of my head was just my imagination... But it wasn’t enough, _I_ wasn’t enough – all he wanted was his new fucking family and that didn’t include ol’ Trevor,”

Trevor turned to face Michael, his face oddly more terrifying than usual for the utter lack of anger it held.

“Everyone has always left me, Mikey – the army, whoever the fuck my father was, Patricia, even my Mom, but for sixteen glorious fucking years I had you and you had me, even when that fucking stripper came on the scene you still hung around with me – getting drunk, fucking _other_ strippers, robbing banks... And then the world took you away and yeah, it fucking hurt, but at least I knew that you tried to stay with me to the fucking end,”

Michael looked away and Trevor laughed bitterly.

“Yeah, yeah you better fucking turn away. Because guess what? Nine years later and I find out that _none_ of that shit’s true. You ain’t dead, Brad _is_ , I was _meant to be_...”

Trevor shifted closer to Michael and dropped his voice.

“Not only did you choose to leave me behind, you tried to get me killed too, like nothing we did together meant _anything_ , like I was a fucking _bystander_ in the way of a big score,”

Michael turned to face him.

“Trevor, no. I didn't go through all that because I wanted you dead, I just wanted _me_ _out_. I wanted my family safe and to not be stuck in the fucking snow for the rest of my life! I don’t regret saving myself, saving them, but I do regret betraying you, putting you in the way of a bullet,” he ran a hand raggedly through his hair. “I know you were family, I _know_ you were my brother, but... _shit_ , I had to make a choice and maybe I chose wrong, but I can’t _change_ that! All the fucking ‘I’m sorry’s in the world ain’t gonna fix what I broke, so why the hell are we still trying?!”

“Because you’re a sad and lonely middle-aged man with no friends and a family who hates him, so you have literally _nothing else_ to do with your time?” drawled Trevor.

“Uh uh uh don’t reflect, Trevor those are _Michael’s_ reasons, what are _yours_?”

“Like fuck they are!” Michael retorted, indignant, but Friedlander shushed him.

Trevor rolled his shoulders in a shrug.

“I dunno... maybe through all that look-out-for-number-one bullshit I can see that he needed to protect his family. They were growing up without him and things were getting tight with the law. I mean, I even knew it back then, I just didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to see that I wasn’t in the picture anymore,”

He grabbed the sides of his head, fisting what little hair he had left in his hands.

“UGH. I’m just SO SICK of being the one left behind! I thought Mikey was different. I guess I just want to prove to myself that the stupid son of a bitch is still there if I need him, that of AAALL the fucking people who’ve left me behind, he’s the only one who came back,” he paused, flashing his eyes wide as he stared at the carpet. “Even if by coming back I mean me tracking him down like a fucking deer and kicking my way back into his pathetic excuse for a life,”

“Gee thanks, T,” replied Michael. He wanted to be more cutting, to give as good as he got, but he felt as though all his hate was twisting back in on himself, where it belonged and he just couldn’t bring himself to fight with Trevor anymore.

“It’s no fun when you don’t fight back, Mikey,” Trevor murmured.

 _How the hell did Trevor always know what he was thinking_? Michael wondered. Perhaps they really were stuck in this horrible dance of theirs for the rest of their lives. Fuck, what a depressing, pathetically-reassuring thought.

Friedlander turned to face Michael.

“And what about you, Michael? Why are you still trying to save this relationship?”

Michael expected Trevor to make another cutting remark, but he just stood there, silently watching him, as if he were willing Michael to finally be truthful.

Michael stood frozen, his mouth open in uncertainty.

“I… I don’t know. Maybe… I convinced myself over the last nine years that I was relieved that Trevor was gone. That I was happier living the dream that I thought I’d always wanted, even if I’ve actually been fucking miserable,”

He glanced at Trevor, who remained eerily still. For a moment, Michael saw the lanky youth waiting for him on the runway, flare gun in hand, dark hair falling across bright eyes.

“Maybe seeing him again reminded me of who I used to be, you know? Who _we_ used to be. I didn’t even know I missed it, fuck, but maybe now that I’ve found it again… I… I don’t wanna lose it…”

Trevor smiled like a supernova, appearing to relax in his own skin for the first time since coming to Los Santos. Michael could feel himself relaxing too, as though something were finally realigning properly in his mind. He smiled back at Trevor, images of future possibilities already swirling around in his head.

The doctor broke the first comfortable silence he and Trevor had shared in fifteen years with a clap of his hands.

“Well, that’s all we’ve got time for I’m afraid gentlemen, but I feel like we made some great progress here today, great progress,

Michael and Trevor turned to look at the doctor as though they’d forgotten he was there. Friedlander stood up and made his way rather hastily towards the door.

“What, that’s it?” asked Trevor. “That was barely half an hour. What the fuck do you expect to get done in half a fucking hour?”

“The standard session time is an hour and Michael was twenty minutes late so... You can always book another appointment if you want – bearing in mind that couple’s appointments are, heh, of course more expensive,”

“Of course,” Michael repeated mockingly.

Friedlander smiled nervously as he grabbed the door handle.

“Now, any further appointments will have to be phone sessions I’m afraid, but I’m sure that we can conference call so there’s no problem there. Of course, phone sessions are more expensive again so please take that into account when providing your ah, bank details,”

By now, the doctor was out the door, only his head craning around the edge of the wood.

“Wait…” Michael said slowly. “Why phone sessions? What’s wrong with your office?”

Trevor looked from Michael to the doctor, his eyes narrowing as they settled on Friedlander.

“I smell a big fuckin’ _rat_ , Mikey…”

Michael nodded, trusting to Trevor’s near-infallible bullshit meter and advanced on the retreating doctor, who cleared his throat nervously and backed away further.

“Well, perhaps now wasn’t the best time to tell you, heh, but I… I’m moving,”

“Moving…” Michael echoed.

“Yes, bigger opportunities! A bigger audience! A… TV show…” he muttered lightly.

“Television?” Trevor muttered derisively. “With _that_ face?”

“Well it’s not always about looks and I have a rather extensive range of… experiences to draw on. People are always interested in the lives of famous people,” his eyes flicked sideways. “Or criminals…”

“Rrrrr!” Trevor growled, starting towards the doctor. “I am going to rip off your arms and fuck you with them!”

Michael bared his teeth fiercely in agreement and followed in Trevor’s wake.

“You son of a bitch,” he shouted. “I’ve poured my heart out to you, not to mention my fucking wallet!”

“I promise all names will be changed, Michael you have nothing to worry about! And remember,” came the rapidly retreating reply from the stairs. “Prevention is better than remorse, don’t act on any violent feelings you might currently be having!”

Michael looked to Trevor, disbelief on his face, and was met with a smile that he hadn’t seen in ten years.

“See, Mikey?” Trevor almost crowed as he came forward and clapped his hands on Michael’s shoulders. “I told ya therapy doesn’t work. Always best to go for the more _permanent_ solution,”

With that he leapt out the door, the pounding on the stairs telling Michael that he was taking them four at a time.

“COME ON, SUGAR TITS HE’S GETTING AWAY!”

Michael couldn’t help it, he let the smile that was threatening to appear, tear across his face and settle on his skin like a dark and terrible omen of violence-to-come.

“Fuckin’ A.”


End file.
